


Sull'Arno d'argento si specchia il firmamento

by BlueSkiedandClear



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A lot of paintings and real locations, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Romance, Courtship, Eventual Fluff, Firenze | Florence, Hannibal Lecter is Il Mostro di Firenze, M/M, Mild Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Tragic Romance, Will Graham is a profiler, Younger characters, it's almost a postcard, italian song lyrics, mild reference to violence, murder toughts, no violence depicted
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:07:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24759055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSkiedandClear/pseuds/BlueSkiedandClear
Summary: A series of murders is shaking Florence. Their resonance is such that the FBI is asked to intervene.Will Graham, a young profiler, may be able to understand the mysterious killer, and leaves for Italy, to investigate the place.Hannibal Lecter, the Monster of Florence, is immediately intrigued by him. He thinks he's going to approach him, and then kill him, but things aren't going as he had planned.He didn't expect to fall in love with the guy who's after him.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	1. Prologo: Firenze, Giugno

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this tweet:
> 
> https://twitter.com/wheeIgraham/status/1272810858058584064
> 
> I changed language, as you see, please let me know about grammar mistakes!

_Florence, June_

The evening was magnificent. The bell towers sounded eight o'clock, but the day had been so hot that most tourists had already taken refuge in restaurants or hotels.

Will and Hannibal crossed only a few Florentines who rushed home, or closed shop. Ponte Vecchio was practically deserted, a show of slow calm, the shutters lowered on the windows full of gold, silver and splendor.

The two of them walked side by side, in a relaxed silence, their hands in their pockets, without looking at each other. It was almost strange, after spending two hours without being able to take their eyes off, lips still ready to smile for no reason.

Will glanced casually at Hannibal, who lingered with his eyes on the lazy flow of the river, to the right, toward the Uffizi Gallery and Piazza Signoria. He wondered if he was remembering the thirty meetings they had had in those places before talking to each other. He doubted, by now, that they had happened incidentally, at least from a certain point on.

It sounded like a damn novel, but he didn't care. It was all so perfect that it made it impossible for him to think of anything else.

They had just taken via Por Santa Maria, and were passing by the Amidei Tower. Will recalled the murder of Buondelmonte, which Hannibal had told him a few days earlier, and found himself reflecting again on how much brutality had taken place in such a beautiful city. And the bloodshed wasn't over.

He shook his head, trying to keep true to his own promise not to think of such gloomy things at that very moment. The sound of an open shutter caught his attention: from the wide-open window, which shone brightly with the white light of a kitchen, came the notes of a radio:

_“_ _... un vostro sorriso è la vita, la gioia infinita, l'eterna passion... ”_

Resounded, in the vibrant and passionate tones typical of Italian language. Will did not understand a word, but he could not help but recognize the romantic nuance of the ballad.

He turned to Hannibal, to ask him if he knew it, and found that he was looking at him. Before he knew it, he passed an arm around his waist, took his hand with his free hand, and involved him in an impromptu dance tour.

Will attempted a faint protest, which was lost in spontaneous laughter as he blushed like a teenager. Hannibal pulled him to himself and took him in a series of light and expert steps, making him do a couple of turns, murmuring the melody of the ballad, without ever leaving his eyes. He seemed to hear a whistle somewhere, but he ignored it: Hannibal's face, his touch were the only things that existed, that mattered.

They stopped slowly as the music faded, and stood for a few seconds in front of each other, without leaving, Will's heart literally buzzing in his chest.

Hannibal bowed his gaze, took him by the hand and led him into an alley, under an arch, in the tiny square in front of the church of Santo Stefano al Ponte.

On the steps, Hannibal turned again to him, and cupped his face in his hands:

" I would like to know what I did to deserve all this, Florence and you, Will Graham. " He murmured, in a vibrant tone.

Will held out to him, no longer thinking, and kissed him. He was barely touched, nothing greedy, nothing reckless. He brushed his lips with his own, while he felt him caress his hair.

Hannibal parted from him with a sigh, and let his mouth linger among his brown curls:

" Come home with me, Will. "

It wasn't an invitation, it wasn't a plea. It was the beginning of a poem.


	2. 2. Quantico, March

Will Graham couldn't be said to be an art expert, in all honesty, but he perfectly recognized a murder when he saw one, however aesthetically pleasing it was.

Because what Jack Crawford was showing him, despite everything, was really beautiful.

The three figures, two women, a man, were arranged in a sort of reluctant embrace. There was no other way to describe it: the girls, half-naked, seemed to pull the young man at them, but he was arranged in such a way as to retract from their grasp. Dressed in red, with a feathered hat on dark curls, he looked much younger than he was.

What they understood until then, and they didn't understand much, was that, at least, the killer didn't kill kids and he wasn't a sexual predator. There was no sensuality in the scene reproduced, there was elevation. He wasn't so much interested in killing them as he was about changing the victims into something else. Best. More beautiful.

A murder artist.

Will frothed, still looking at the photographs of the crime scene: how to catch this guy? He had no motive, he didn't have a criterion of choice of victims, he left no trace. He was a ghost, indeed.

He laid the photos on his desk and looked at Agent Crawford:

"It's the same man, no doubt. I don't know which scene he replicated, but the intent is the same: he turned these people into works of art. And with a special detail. Again, are there any missing organs? " He wanted to know.

Crawford nodded:

" The heart of all three, the liver of the man. " He replied, giving him his gaze:

"Are you still convinced of your theory? Does he eat them? " He asked for confirmation. Will nodded:

" There doesn't seem to be any other explanation. The meat spoils. "

The two exchanged an uneasy glance, then Crawford sighed:

" The Florence Police Force insists on our intervention. I don't want to second you, Will, but so far you've been the only one who understands anything about it. You could be our best weapon." He remarked, with displeasure. Will studied him:

"It seems strange to have such a pressing insistence on the part of a foreign government. It makes me think they might suspect a stranger. Maybe an American. ” He remarked.

" It is not to be excluded. They didn't confide in us very much, you know how they are. But they want a competent opinion, and I gave them your references, Chilton and Bloom's. They preferred you. "

Will imagined why: Chilton had been mentioned out of sheer courtesy, but he did not have a great reputation, Alana Bloom, however prepared and efficient, did not have his same experience.

Crawford looked at him again:

" The case of The Shrike and the Angels Maker made you famous, Will. " He pointed out.

Will frowned:

" I didn't need any more fame, Jack. " Declared, dryly.

He was well known enough for his peculiarity, but luckily, Crawford had enough tact not to point out the point. He collected the file:

"You have a few days to think about it, but I really wouldn't recommend another agent. The Italians seem excited about you, and they have a thorny case in their hands. They are pretty anxious to see it solved, and you can do it, Will. " He concluded.

Will merely nodded, and took leave.

When he returned home, his mind was entirely gripped by the murders. He sat on the bed, with his laptop on his legs, and stood staring at the screen, musing.

The last one was the third in nine months. The first two had left him speechless.

A boy found strangled, with vine leaves in his hair and an ancient cup in his hands.

A couple stretched out on the body of a van, the woman dressed in a long white gown and flowers coming out of her mouth, the man in a blue tunic, in the act of grabbing her, as if in flight.

Will Graham was not an art expert, but he knew how to do his research: he had spent hours on the internet and in the library, until he had found what he was looking for.

Michelangelo's _Bacchus_ and Sandro Botticelli's _The Allegory of the Spring_. A statue and a painting, one preserved at the Bargello Museum, the other, very famous, at the Uffizi Gallery. Both Florentine museums, of course.

His first thought had been to imagine that the murderer was Florentine in turn, but he had soon discarded the hypothesis: there was an unusual reverence in those tableaux, as if those who composed them were not accustomed to beauty, but undoubtedly knew how to appreciate it. An artist or an art student. A collector. A scholar. Someone who certainly lived in Florence, knew and loved it.

There was a deep passion in those crimes, but not towards the victims, they were incidental. Towards their transformation. Towards the result of that change.

The killer was a connoisseur of Italian art, at least, but Will felt that his man was skilled in many fields. A scrupulous type, attentive to detail, precise, of firm hand.

He had killed quickly, but he had not spared himself in cruelty to the victims: the organs had been removed while they were still alive.

They had offended him, somehow. It was a bland revenge, a kind of punishment, for what they were or for something they had committed.

In his eyes they were bruised, and he had made them beautiful again. Even nicer than they were in life.

This killer had a kind of internalized philanthropy: he loved humanity (What a piece of work is a man), but he despised some aspects of it, Will imagined, the most trivial and abject.

Maybe those people had behaved in a despicable manner. They had disgusting habits or were crude, vulgar or violent.

Will vented the report on the last three victims: college students in their twenties. All three foreigners, normal lives, normal families.

What could they have done to offend the “ Monster ”, as the press now called him?

If Will had really begun to understand how his man reasoned, maybe they threw some trash on the ground. The Monster seemed capable of killing for so little.

He didn't care about the existence of those people, because he thought it was of little importance. He was intrigued by what those people, under his skilled and expert hands, his taste and knowledge could become.

In the same way that a sculptor does not care about the humble provenance of the stone, if it can make it a masterpiece.

Will bit his lower lip as he typed a few keywords on the search engine bar. It was almost certain that the killer had chosen another museum, and all he had to do was control them all. As if there weren't enough in Florence.

He started with the majors, and after excluding the Academy Gallery and the museum of Palazzo Vecchio, ended up on the site of Palazzo Pitti. As the presentation page of the Palatine Gallery flowed, an image caught his eye: a large painting, in dark shades where the bright and finished figures exalted like stars in the night. It had several characters, seven to be precise. Six girls and a boy, dressed in red.

His eyes sought title and author: _Ila and the nymphs_ , Francesco Furini.

Another mythological subject, then, said to himself Will, taking a note.

The Monster is fascinated by classical mythology and knows it well. He made his victims like gods or demigods. Not only did he improve them, he made them immortal.

He wants his work to be admired, recognized. He didn't sign it, but it's impossible to confuse with anyone else.

His man was saying to him, _Look at me_.

Will felt a strange squeeze on his stomach. Is it possible that, as the Questura had noticed him, the Monster had noticed him too? It wasn't a possibility to be ruled out.

The newspapers, the tabloids, the internet didn't skimp on Special Agent Graham and his gift as a super detective. Or so it was passed by.

The empathy disorder he was suffering from, in fact, was anything but something he was proud of. It was just like seeing too much, feeling too much. A hypersensitivity, which left him uncovered as a nerve. It had inevitably isolated him from others, prevented him from having a truly normal life. It's hard to understand you, when you're the one who understands everything.

The Monster had seen him, and wanted to be seen by him. It was almost... Flattering. Will wanted to catch him because he was a murderer, but he would have preferred him to be more banal, less interesting. It was a shame to lose a genius of that caliber.

Will sighed and closed the laptop, dropping on the bed, joining the dots.

The Monster had to be young, he had the strength to overpower healthy people, maneuver them, and move them. He wasn't Florentine, and he probably wasn't even Italian. There were thousands of foreigners in Florence, he had found himself an ideal cover.

He was a student or a researcher, but it was possible he was in town under some other pretext.

He had the means and the space to work on the bodies. Maybe he lived outside the city, or on the outskirts. He ate the organs he removed. He cooked them, almost certainly. He had a vast culture. A lot of interests. He knew languages. He loved Florence and its art. He was interested in Will's empathy.

He wanted to meet him.

And who was Will to deny it?

He retrieved his cell phone and typed Jack Crawford's number. He answered after two rings.

" Jack, I accept the assignment. "


	3. Firenze, Marzo

The girl was undoubtedly beautiful: big green eyes, blonde hair, a slender figure. She was a dancer, and she was trying to get into the La Scala Academy in Milan. She told him her name was Caterina, but that wasn't true. It was a normal approach technique, in fact.

Hannibal Lecter wasn't interested enough in her to worry about it, anyway.

He was pretending to listen to her with polite detachment, while sipping a cappuccino at his favorite table at  _Gilli_ , and musing on a harpsichord composition that had been keeping him busy for several days.

The fake Caterina was not so rude as to be eaten, nor so charming as to want to keep her between friendships.

Hannibal smiled disarmingly at her:

“ Sono certo che brillerai come una stella a Milano, Caterina. ” He told her, nodding to a waiter. He paid for both, and stood up, making her a little bow:

“ è stato un piacere, ma devo proprio andare. ” He waved, and walked calmly toward the exit.

As he made his way along Piazza della Repubblica, immersed in his thoughts about the harpsichord, he casually joined a young man who spoke excitedly on the phone. Without doing it on purpose, he took an excerpt of conversation, in English:

"Listen," He was saying, "I don't care about permits, I need those results as soon as possible. I've been here ten days, and I'm stuck like an idiot because of the bureaucracy. Yes... No. No, I'm going to the Uffizi now, Pazzi will meet me there. I need to see all three works to figure out how to move. No... no, I know very well... I already have the reporters at my tail... As if I had written F.B.I in my forehead..."

Hannibal was distracted from the harpsichord. Pretending to check his cell phone, he slowed down to find himself behind the stranger, and observe him. He walked quickly, with a nervous step. He held a sunken hand in a pocket of the hideous under-branded jeans he wore, and occasionally looked around, with a annoyed air. This gave him the opportunity to at least see his profile: beautiful features, strong but harmonious. Brown curls, blue eyes.

If he was really who he thought, he was proving more interesting than he had imagined. But he had to be sure. He quickly made a decision.

Luck assisted him: just then, a bicycle was coming in their direction.

In a spontaneous movement, he dropped his bag and lowered himself to retrieve it, with a well-studied exclamation. The bicycle swerved to avoid him, causing him to fall and almost ending up on the in-little-time-no-more-unknown F.B.I. agent.

" Hey, be careful, damn it!" He exclaimed, turning around and noticing Hannibal on the ground, whose was getting up and dusting his jacket. He hurried in his direction:

“ Tutto bene? ” He asked, throwing a glance at the cyclist, who was leaving, showing him his middle finger.

“ Yes, thank you... it was my fault, I'm afraid. ” He recalled Hannibal, in English, with an embarrassed but composed expression.

The agent, the young agent of whom he believed he had guessed the identity, gave him a sly, ridiculously intriguing smile:

“ They drive like crazy here.” He remarked, in a casual tone, and he then added, “ Foreigner? ”

“ Yes, I'm here to study. I'm sorry, I sensed the same from the accent... ” He answered, rewarded by a twinkle in those blue eyes, frankly splendid:

“ Oh, yeah, my Italian is awful. I should practice more. But it's nice to speak in English from time to time. " He pled.

Hannibal smiled in turn, taking a moment to appreciate those features, and already feeling a small bite of displeasure. He didn't know he was so beautiful. This took away much of the satisfaction.

“ I still apologize, I'm not going to make you late. It's all right. ” He said, hoping that he was the kind of person he thought. 

He was.

“ No trouble, indeed, if I may ask... Could you point me in the direction for the Uffizi? I think I'm lost. ” Retorted.

“ I'm going there, I can go with you without a problem. ” He proposed Hannibal, in a conciliatory tone.

The relief on his face enlightened him, for a brief moment:

“ Thank you, really. ”

He hesitated for a moment, then held out his hand:

“ Will Graham. ” He introduced himself.

Excellent.

“ Hannibal Lecter.”

They started.

They walked in a relaxed silence, punctuated every now and then by a few casual chats. Of course, Will didn't tell Hannibal what he was doing, he talked generically about research work, and mostly told of what his first days in Florence had been like.

Hannibal, too, looked carefully at revealing relevant details, and merely told a few anecdotes. He told Will that he had recently graduated and had taken a sabbatical before starting practice. All true.

Whenever he could, Hannibal stole a detail of his appearance or his way of moving and talking. He was absolutely charming, not even realizing it.

He would have liked to have heard him think, actually. From the way the newspapers had described him, he seemed to have a remarkable mind, but he had no way of proving it, for now.

He was deeply disappointed, seeing the colonnade of the Uffizi and knowing that he had to let him go. He greeted him politely, already with a plan in mind to see him again. As soon as he was alone, he pulled out his cell phone and wrote a number.

It hardly even made time to ring:

“ Yes? ”

“ Chiyo, you should do a favor to me.”

In front of the Porta della Dogana of the Uffizi Gallery, Will was thinking back to the last two hours, with a sense of estrangement.

His morning had begun in a daunting manner, but it had had an unexpected turn.

Will was really lost, discussing on the phone with Katz the forensics results on the latest victims, which were slow to arrive. He didn't even need complete exams, just a comparison. However, all he had done in Florence since his arrival had been to consult pages and pages of art history manuals. In a city that had more U.S. artwork put together, perhaps.

Then, he had almost been hit by a bicycle. The incident itself had already been completely forgotten, but Will still had a strange feeling about the encounter that ensued.

Will Graham wasn't a sociable person, or whose made friends easily. He wasn't even the kind of person who started a conversation, to say the least. But an act of courtesy was normal. As a rule, he wouldn't start chatting with a complete stranger, but Hannibal Lecter had something magnetic.

Will let his mind linger on him as he waited for Pazzi.

He certainly had a remarkable appearance, he recognized: a few years older than him, tall, elegant features, he had in general the demeanour of some wealthy researcher or collector.

A quick glance at his clothes had confirmed to him that those few garments were worth more than his entire wardrobe.

He was certainly a completely different person from him, but they were comfortable for those few minutes. Will was sure that when they separated, he was even sorry. Of course, he himself had felt a strange sense of abandonment. Maybe they would meet again, the city wasn't big.

He didn't think he could wish for a friend in that context. A friend, for sure.

The way Hannibal had looked at him a couple of times had made him imagine another kind of interest, but he rejected that thought: he couldn't know. The idea made him blush anyway, in spite of himself.

He was not in Florence to make conquests. He's not a guy who made conquests, anyway.

He roused himself, seeing what he believed to be Rinaldo Pazzi coming to meet him.

“ Agent Graham? ” Pazzi asked, helding out his hand. Will nodded:

“ Commendator Pazzi. ” He rejoined, with a polite smile.

The man beckoned him to follow him, walking forward to a secondary entrance. The official opening of the museum would only be in an hour, so they had time to see _La Primavera_ calmly.

Will realized that he was in an extraordinary building, seizing excerpts of the ornate ceilings and paintings and sculptures in the hallways and halls, but the reason that brought him there was brutal, in contrast to such a place.

“ Many beautiful works are born out of horror. ” Pazzi remarked, breaking the silence.

Will nodded:

“ This is the Monster way of thinking, but it's true. ” He agreed.

“ The _Primavera_ itself was born after a tragedy. ” Pazzi added. Will thought he knew what he was referring to:

“ Are you talking about the girl, commendatore? Simonetta? ” He asked.

Pazzi sighed, with a touch of drama that threatened to snatch a smile from Will:

“ The _Sans Par_. Loved in the Renaissance Florence, incomparable and dead too soon. Maybe the Monster was thinking about this. ” He supposed.

Will shrugged:

“ He did not choose the figure that is imagined to be Simonetta, but the nymph that turns into a goddess. The Monster is interested in change, not nostalgic memory. The Monster is not nostalgic for the past, he looks to the future.” He replied.

Pazzi studied him with interest:

“ Agent Crawford was right, in recommending you, Agent Graham. Your skills are as valuable as we knew. ” He underlined.

Will frowned:

“ Don't listen to the tabloids, commendatore. They often overdo. ” He waved aside.

“ But there is a kernel of truth. You understand this killer, Will. And it's good for us. ” He remarked. Will kept quiet.

They had arrived in the hall where _La Primavera_ was stored. Will noticed the Birth of Venus, not far away, and returned to focus on the great painting.

Of course, it was a very different view than the one in a printed book.

The colors seemed to shine with their own light, despite the soft shades of tempera, the flowers seemed sewn into the canvas. The figures had an elegant static. There was a frozen beauty, timeless, devoid of any vulgarity. Art is never vulgar, even when it is provocative, but in this type of work there was a measure that the Monster certainly appreciated.

An undeniable and contained splendor. It was what the Monster wanted to achieve, without a shadow of a doubt.

Will looked at the figures of the nymph Clori and the god Zephyr, which the assassin had recreated. Zephyr, the west wind blowing in the spring, kidnapped Clori and turned her into Flora, goddess of flowers. A rebirth that is perpetuated every year, which took place through love.

The Monster was looking for love, perhaps unconsciously.

Will browsed the file about the second murder: the victims didn't even know each other, they weren't a couple. They vaguely resembled the two subjects represented, but not so much.

But the Monster had made of them two mythical lovers, who had procreated a new, better life.

The Monster felt lonely. It was a solitude with which he was used to living, but perhaps he began to suffer from it.

The god Zephyrus had taken a nymph and changed her into a goddess. He made her his equal.

The Monster was also looking for a peer, to create together a new existence, full of beauty.

The Monster was in love with the idea of love, and was looking for a fellow man to fall in love with.

Will closed the file and watched to Pazzi:

“ The Monster is courting someone. ” He said.

Pazzi frowned:

“ Who? ”

“ I don't know.” Will lied. He did not want to reveal to Pazzi that he was probably the dark object of the Monster's desire himself, not least because he needed more evidence.

“ I have to see the other works, to try to figure it out. ” He explained.

Rinaldo Pazzi nodded and looked at the _Primavera_ again:

“ I'll go with you, tomorrow, to the other museums. This never will look the same to me. ” He said.

Will returned with his gaze to the nymph and Zephyro: looking through the Monster's eyes was terrible, and beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lines in italian mean:
> 
> I'm sure you're going to shine like a star in Milan, Caterina.
> 
> it was a pleasure, but I really have to go
> 
> It's all right?

**Author's Note:**

> The song mentioned is " Firenze sogna" , which is recalled in the title, too


End file.
